


Softly Now

by Jenwryn



Category: Death Note
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-29
Updated: 2009-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:59:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The apartment is laced with the smell of fresh paint, and L has flecks of blue upon his cheeks.</p><p>Unrepentantly happy AU. Established relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Softly Now

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. So it was a choice between me typing this up, or me screaming at something (thank you, uni), and I figured that at least y'all might get some enjoyment out of the former, hopefully. I had three hours of sleep last night, forgive me if there are bad errors, eh. I wrote this on Friday afternoon, sitting in the middle of a footpath, all because I'd walked past a house which smelt strongly of fresh paint and my brain... well, I don't know what exactly my brain did, to be honest, but it coughed this up as a result. Ahhh, and there's something about L/Light that always turns me into a fluffy!domestic!fic writer, how odd.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

 

_Love you more than anyone.  
Love you more in time to come.  
Love you more._

~ Alexi Murdoch, 'Time Without Consequence'.

*

The apartment is laced with the smell of fresh paint, and L has flecks of blue upon his cheeks. The sunlight, pouring in at the open window along with insistent gusts of clean air, is busy dappling itself across his face, too, all warmth and whiteness. His t-shirt has stains on in, and he's laughing, as he sits upon a folded towel, on the floor, eating peaches from a tin.

"Idiot," murmurs Light, but even he can hear the affection in his own voice. Not that it matters. He doesn't have to hide it any more, not now, not now that the world has changed, and L is his and he is L's. Never has to hide it again.

L grows still at the sound of Light's voice, and glances up at him properly. His smile does not lessen, though. He just licks the goldenish syrup from his fork with a flexible tongue, and makes a _hmm?_ face.

Light screws the lid back onto the thermos that he's been drinking black coffee from, puts it to one side, and then leans forwards on his knees. "Have I told you how beautiful you look today?" he asks in a low voice, and means it.

L's smile becomes a grin, and he laughs again, but he knows better than to argue on this point; besides, he has almost come to believe it, _almost,_ tentatively, beneath the sheer impact of Light's determined certainty. He doesn't answer, though. He lets his fork drop, prongs down, back into the tin. He rises to his own knees, and moves forwards; moves forwards, towards the young man before him. When he has reached the sheets Light is sitting on, he settles down again, looks up at him, and simply _breathes_.

Light accepts the movement for what it is, and closes the distance between them. Their kiss is soft, soft now, shared and sweet; peaches and coffee, promises and familiarity. There is no urgency. There is only comfort and trust, comfort and permission, yes, permission to do this, to feel this, as often as Light could possibly wish.

For the rest of his life.

Forever.

The scent of the paint is strong around them, as he runs his hands down L's back. "Love you," Light says, because he can, because he's allowed to; because he means it.

L traces a finger along the length of Light's jaw, as if he still can't believe that this soul before him is real, tangible, his. As if he still can't believe what luck he has had: to be given something, something like this, a chance like this, a heart like this. To be given it freely.

"Me too," he says, and reads in Light's eyes the certainty that what he is trying to say has been heard and understood. With a laugh that feels almost out of place - he cannot help it, there is something about the sight of the curtains thrown over a box, something about the way everything is as good as labelled with the words _THIS IS A NEW BEGINNING_, something about the way that Light leans into his touch - L slides into place on the younger man's lap. Undressing, unwrapping, he begins the familiar process of memorising, cataloguing, carefully recording, for the umpteenth time, every stroke of skin, every curl of hair, every dark freckle, every sigh and breath that Light gives up to him, at his touch, and caress, and kiss.

Their bodies are warm and gentle as they make love on the pile of sheets, supposed to protect the floorboards from spilt paint, that Light is sitting on. Naked, L stays in Light's lap. He holds Light's shoulders with his hands, thumbs circles against his skin, welcomes his lover deeper inside of his own body. The sex is gentle, and slow, and quiet. There are plenty of times for rough or wild or methodical or even mediocre; but that's not for now. This is something else, as L moves in tune with Light; as Light's hands hold him steady and secure; as, together, they breathe, and whisper, and bathe in the sun's warmth.

There is no rush, here amongst the paint, here amongst the tinned peaches and the tumbled-out suitcases, here amongst the spring air and the open window's light.

There is only skin, and _now_, and warmth, and _us_.

It is a gift, and they are blessed enough to know it.


End file.
